


And Then We Rise

by killFee



Category: Brave (2012)
Genre: Gen, Non-graphic character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killFee/pseuds/killFee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legends are not born, nor do they die. They are there waiting for us to come to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then We Rise

Legends of heroes were what fed the princess, when she was small. They brought her to her mother's knee over and over again on stormy nights, and sunshiney days, until her bottom was numb and her eyes were heavy, the only lessons of which she never tired. 

-

When the metal length of the sword slid into her belly, she made no sound. She breathed. It stung low. The sword was withdrawn. She breathed again.

Aching, with every swing of her arm weighing on her bones like the pressures of the ocean, she stepped until her back was against the solid cool surface of a standing stone. Off came her belt, then on again, lashed around she and the rock so that her spine was straight and her head rose above the bloody grass.

_I'll not die kneeling_ , thought the queen.

One after another came against her, and though her shoulders numbed, though the sword's clashes came dimmer and dimmer and her blood went sticky, then cold, then dry, then blooming again on her stomach, she would not be struck down. Queen Merida of Clan Dunbroch, of all the clans on all the green rolling hills and foggy moors and sun-soaked cliffs, who Walks With The Wisps and led her people to golden peace when she could and bloody glory when she couldn't, Queen Merida, Witch-whisperer, Queen Merida, Bear-Child, did not die kneeling, did not die at all until the last invader had been driven back, in as many pieces as she and her brave, good folk had deigned to let him keep, until his sails were memories upon the sea. 

This, she did for her men, her women, her clan, her kingdom. For herself, she stayed until she could hear all her brave, good folk singing and bellowing in victory.

None yet had noticed her, lashed against that rock, the upright stone long having taken on the burden her legs no longer could. 

_Good_ , thought the queen. She didn't care for goodbyes.

Her arm fell, driving the tip of her sword into the wet ground. She folded her weathered hands over the pommel and closed her eyes. Behind the dark of her lids, she saw: blue fire. Soft. Unearthly. Familiar.

Her skin tingled, and up she rose.

-

She was buried alongside her mother and father, her brother who died in battle, and her brother who fell ill. Upon her cairn they scattered white quartz and a symbol stone was placed at its head. Her remaining brother, her consort, and her daughter stood at the royal plot first among the leaders of the other clans who paid their respects with solemn brows, then open to the public, who mourned in their own loud, sodden way, whiskey poured into the soil, sharing raucous tales of glory to quiet the sorrows in their heart. At last they gathered the handful of men who'd found her body.

They recounted how they had seen her at the crest of the hill, at the mouth of the ring of standing stones. How she'd been straight, and tall, like a tree. How her hands stayed crossed over the pommel of her sword and how her hair spilled over her shoulders in red abundance, threaded through with silver that glinted in the setting sun. How they hadn't known she was dead until they were an arm's length from her, and saw the raven settled on her shoulder, black and weightless, a shadow given form. 

"I saw a raven today," said her daughter from behind the knee of her father. The men stopped their talking, and looked at the little princess. She puffed her freckled cheeks and squirmed out from under her papa's hand when it came down on top of her head. "I did. It came to my window. It had the prettiest blue eyes." 

She walked forward. The men stepped out of her way, and the little princess lay her hand on the stones covering her mother. "It told me stories."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by the tales of Cú Chulainn, though not in a particularly thorough fashion.


End file.
